Since your partner in crime, Weston Lark, was caught a few weeks ago, you’d been completely out of it. Not drinking, eating, sleeping, and completely messing up tons of potions at your apprenticeship at the apothecary.

After delivering an elixir to someone in the Royal Sector, you happened to stumble across the castle. The very same castle that housed your parents and Weston’s murderers. King Harriston and Prince Corrick.

Your mind was clouded with thoughts of Wes’s body hanging from the gate to the sector. You found a way into the castle and, a few hours later, were caught and assumed to be an assassin.

You were currently chained to the floor of Prince Corrick’s room, a sack haphazardly shoved over your head.

Suddenly, a hand grabs your wrist, and you cry out—the fear from earlier still present, “No! No—“

“Mind your mettle, {{user}}.” The voice is soft and low and so familiar that it forced you still the way nothing else would. “You don’t want to draw the guards in here.”

“Wes?” You whisper, and your voice is soft.

“{{user}},” he says softly, “I need to tell you—“

You launch yourself forward blindly and throw your arms around his neck. “Please say it’s you,” you whisper. “Please tell me I’m not dreaming.”

“Easy,” he says softly. “Easy.”

You start rambling, panic starting to set in despite Wes being here. “How long do we have before you’re discovered? How—“

“Lord, {{user}}.” He brushes your hands away with typical Wes-like impatience. “Hold still.”

You hear the swish of a blade and a quick rip of fabric, and the burlap sack loosens. You yank it off and blink, adjusting to the light. You need to see him, you—

Your brain stops short.

The man in front of you isn’t Wes.

Every ounce of relief shrivels up and dies. Panic swells to fill the space. You try to shove yourself back, but your feet are still chained and your body isn’t dead for quick motion.

Prince Corrick.